Play and Fail
by LeaStar
Summary: It's been a while since you last saw me and I must apologise, but I've been preparing a new game for a while now. I hope you'll enjoy it and I wish you a good night's sleep. Are Sherlock and John ready for a new game? First they have to come to terms with each other. John has a crush and Sherlock is confused.
1. Chapter 1

**Ah, new stories are always exciting to post. This is my first story for this fandom, so I'm quite nervous, but I think it's acceptable. Have fun reading!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, except the plot...**

**Chapter 1 "The Letter"**

John Hamish Watson put the newspaper down he had been reading to look at his pacing colleague, Sherlock Holmes. The word friend was always on the tip of his tongue, but sometimes he never knew how to describe their relationship. His flatmate could drive him up the wall and the thought of strangling him crossed his mind one or two times a day, but he was still in awe of the younger man.

His mind – or "hard-drive" as Sherlock called it – was unique and his observing skills unchallenged. Unfortunately Sherlock knew he was one of a kind and often treated the people around him like they were not worthy of him.

John learned the hard way that the genius was married to his work and if there was no work, he could be a pain in the arse.

Yes, it was one of those days.

They hadn't had a case in three days and John was sure Sherlock couldn't get any worse. He had already destroyed the microwave, three plates and the doctor was sure the food was no longer edible.

"John!"

The former soldier was interrupted in his thoughts as the world's only consulting detective stared at him with annoyance. He had given up the pacing and was now perched on the sofa.

"Sherlock, what do you want?" John sighed and rubbed his temples, he couldn't put up with this any longer.

"You seem annoyed," the detective observed and leaned slightly forwards.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm annoyed. Don't you have a hobby? Besides your violin and experimenting," the shorter man hastily added, not wanting to be nearly scared to death by an explosion – again.

"I don't need another hobby, I need a case!" he shouted frustrated and ruffled his dark hair.

"I can't just make a case appear! For that I would have to murder somebody!" John exclaimed and saw a slight change in Sherlock's eyes.

"…would you do that for me?"

"No!"

Now imagine this scenario constantly repeating itself for three days. Yes, John wished – no matter how cruel that sounded – someone would be murdered. He couldn't stand his flatmate like this any longer. Mrs Hudson told him before Sherlock met John, he was even worse. A shudder went through the blonde doctor; he never wanted to experience Sherlock in a worse mood. If that was even possible.

The two men simultaneously looked at each other as Sherlock's phone made a sound. He had received a message, which could only mean three things:

-Lestrade needed their help

-Mycroft wanted to annoy his brother

-or Moriarty wanted to play another game

John desperately hoped it was the first option.

Sherlock took his phone and read the message; a slight smirk appeared on his face. He stood up and took his coat, the ex-soldier following him. He would kiss Lestrade when they got to the crime scene, but then people would maybe question his sexuality. OK, they already questioned it…

A cab seemed to magically appear out of nowhere and they got in, giddy with excitement and forever thankful for the murder.

* * *

Lestrade was already waiting for them when they arrived at the crime scene. (John changed his mind and didn't kiss him, it would've been too awkward). They went through the door two a small flat and John saw the body of a man, his face bloody and beyond recognisable. Sherlock walked in front of him, already kneeling beside the victim. Anderson and Donovan sent him hateful glares and snickered at one of their jokes.

John clenched his hands and felt anger rise in him. He really despised these two, always making fun of his friend and then relying on his help with cases. How did Lestrade manage to put up with them?

"Did you move his body?" Sherlock asked, his baritone voice vibrating off the walls.

"Just went through his pockets, his name is Richard Collins, 33 years old. A friend of his found him this morning," the DI informed them, waiting for the detective to find something.

"His face was beaten numerous of times, clearly the attacker was angry and the most obvious cause of death would be the blow to the back of his head. There's a footprint mark on his abdomen, based on the size of it the murderer was male. He was also freshly divorced," Sherlock deducted and looked up, sighing as he saw the confused faces.

"There," he pointed at the left hand, "is a mark on his hand where the ring had been. The marriage didn't last long, it's not too deep. John, how long do you think he's dead?"

The doctor examined the body – a little bit embarrassed for not seeing he had been married – and turned towards Sherlock.

"I would say he's been murdered in the last twenty-four hours."

The two stood up and Sherlock looked around the room.

"The door and windows show no sign of a break-in, the victim knew his murderer. Search for his family, but it is more likely that someone from his ex-wife's side killed him. John, are you coming?"

The shorter man sent an apologetic smile to the DI and hastily followed his friend.

* * *

John was on his way to the victim's former wife, after Scotland Yard gave them a list of relatives. The marriage between Richard Collins and Nichole hadn't lasted long, only seven months. Sherlock sent him to talk with her, while the detective himself went to the wife's brother, Matthew Alden.

Apparently John was "more suited to talk to females, because he was very gentle". The doctor supposed he was, but Sherlock's choice of words had confused him a little bit, especially the last word. John had slightly blushed as his friend had said it and cursed his body for reacting even more as he saw Sherlock's smile. That damned smile.

John had tried to lie to himself and live in denial, but after a while he had accepted it. He was _a little bit_ attracted to his _male_ friend. His first encounter of having a wet dream of his flatmate was very embarrassing and he told himself it was because he was living with him. He just spent too much time with him and he hadn't had a girlfriend in months.

His solution? He needed a woman in his life and everything would solve itself. One month later he had found a nice woman and he thought she was perfect. Natalie had been every guy's dream and John thought his problem was solved. Until he had had sex with her. As he came he couldn't help himself and imagined it was Sherlock under him and he had nearly shouted _his_ name. _That_ would've been humiliating.

But he couldn't tell Sherlock. He had made John very clear that relationships were not his area. And even if the genius would be interested in having one, why would he be gay and attracted to _John_ of all people? No, the doctor knew Sherlock was not his to have and he would silently suffer.

He would never strain their friendship with telling Sherlock he _liked_ him. It wasn't love. Love had to be build up; no one could just wake up one day and think "oh my God I love him". That just happened in fairy tales and very bad movies or books.

Lost in his thoughts he nearly didn't realize the cab already stopped. He paid the driver and looked at the house in front of him. He found it very pretty; it wasn't too big and made in Tudor style. Mentally preparing himself he rang the doorbell and not a minute later a woman in her early thirties opened the door. She had long red hair and clear blue eyes and stared at him confused.

"Hello, are you Nichole Collins? I'm Dr. John Watson and I have a few questions," he saw her slightly stiffen at the use of her surname. _Interesting…_

"Yes, ahm, what kind of questions? Are you from the police?" she asked him, her eyes widening.

"I'm not exactly from the police, but it's about your former husband, Richard."

She grew even tenser and let him enter the house. Nichole offered him tea and he politely declined, he hoped it wouldn't take too long. John sat down on the black sofa and turned his attention towards the woman's forearms. Slight bruises were visible under her white blouse and a horrible thought crossed his mind, but he decided not to say anything yet.

"What did Richard do?" the red-head asked, nervously playing with her fingers, not directly looking at the visitor.

"He didn't do anything, Nichole…he was murdered," he gently told her, hoping she wouldn't burst into tears.

Nichole stared at him, eyes filling with tears, but he couldn't see the sadness in her face. There was just…relief? After a few silent moments she seemed to remember something and she looked at him with horror.

"Who killed him?" she whispered.

"We don't know yet, but I'm sure we'll find out soon enough who killed him," John assured her while trying to find something out from her behaviour. She didn't seem too shocked about his death and not really sad either.

She stood up and went to the kitchen and John saw more bruises on her lower back.

"Nichole, why did you and Richard divorce?"

The woman tensed again and looked at him with wide eyes, trembling slightly.

"You already know, don't you?" she asked him, a slight nod of John confirmed her worries.

"Ri – he changed when we married. He started to hit me when I did something wrong. I – I was so scared. My bro – brother found out and he w – was furious. He told me to break up with him, but he was so – I've never seen him like that before."

She leaned on the wall and tears slid down her face.

"Don't tell me Matthew killed him!"

John stood up and put an arm around her shoulder and immediately she put her face below his neck, sobbing her heart out.

"We don't know yet, but my partner is speaking to your brother right now."

"Please, if he ki – illed him… He just tried to protect me, he'd never-," she couldn't finish the sentence and hiccupped.

"'Are – are we finished?"

Sympathetically John looked at her and thought of Sherlock, who maybe was in danger right now, if the brother wouldn't cooperate. His stomach tightened at the idea and he fiddled with the seam of his jeans unconsciously.

"I suppose so… I'm sorry what you have to go through and – "

"Please, just…go, I can't – "

Without a further word the doctor left the house, closing the door quietly. Not a second later he fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and sent his colleague a text, telling him the brother was most likely the killer.

He ran a hand through his hair and silently prayed he wouldn't need to be Sherlock's doctor again.

* * *

_Dull, boring, tedious._

The conversation with the ex-wife's brother was really unnecessary. Sherlock had already figured out he was the murderer. Whenever he talked about the victim anger would flash in his eyes and his posture would stiffen. His foot size fit the bruising on Richard's body and he said how bad his sister must feel and _blah_.

The detective couldn't take this talk any longer and he was glad when his phone interrupted the brother's babble.

**Brother is most likely the killer, Nichole thought so. Take care. JW**

The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards at the thought of John caring for him. He was such a worrier. Well, he was a doctor after all, even a remarkably good one, Sherlock had to admit.

Quickly writing soothing words back (as soothing as they can come from the genius) he once again turned towards the obvious killer who grew more and more nervous.

"Thank you for the talk, Mr Alden," he said and left the flat as quickly as possible. Sherlock smirked at how the brother must feel now, helpless and confused. A warm fuzzy feeling filled his entire being at the thought. Ah, how he adored his work, feeling superior and especially smart. OK, he perennially felt like that.

The genius sent a message to Lestrade, knowing that Scotland Yard were at least capable of arresting someone.

_This was such an effortless case. Why did he even need my help? Hmm, at least I'm not bored any longer._

With long strides he approached the street, already spotting a cab.

_I wonder if John is already at home. Hopefully he didn't forget to buy milk and new food; the last experiment didn't turn out too well…_

* * *

"And? Still bored?" John asked Sherlock as he entered their flat, discarding his scarf and coat. While Sherlock had still been away, the blonde had done the shopping and updated his blog.

"No, gladly not. I'm thanking Lestrade for giving me a new case, but this one was very easy to solve. Even he could have done it. They are getting lazier each day," Sherlock remarked, stretching himself and plopping down onto the sofa, taking up all the space with his long legs.

The moonlight shone through the window and made the detective's cheekbones appear even sharper. His pale blue-green eyes glinted and John couldn't help but stare.

"Why are you staring at me?" Sherlock asked bluntly, his thick eyebrows narrowing in confusion.

John could feel his face heat up and he quickly looked away. He really should control himself better. He looked towards the kitchen, spotting the object addressed to his colleague.

"Sherlock, there's a letter for you," he said while getting up from the armchair and handing it to him.

The thin man snatched it away from him and studied it. He slowly opened it and looked inside, carefully pulling the sheet of paper out. As he read his expression became hard and John got more and more curious.

Sherlock looked up at John, staring at him intently and showing him the letter, a grim look on his face.

_Dear Sherlock and Pet,_

_It's been a while since you last saw me and I must apologise._

_Life is quite hectic, but I'm glad you could rest before our new game starts._

_I've been preparing it for a while now and I must applaud myself for it._

_I hope you'll enjoy it and I wish you a good night's sleep._

_Yours cordially,_

_M_

The doctor thought back to the night at the pool and a cold feeling spread in his body. Sherlock didn't seem any better, his tense posture gave him away. He didn't want to play 'games' with Moriarty again, the last time had been terrifying enough.

"John. When did this letter arrive?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth, his voice dangerously low.

"I – I don't know. It was here when I arrived, maybe Mrs Hudson knows," John answered perplex, overwhelmed with the situation they found themselves.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Not a minute later she appeared at the door, a displeased look plastered on her face.

"Sherlock, what do you need this time?" she asked.

"When did this letter arrive?" he repeated his question. John saw Mrs Hudson becoming confused, clearly not seeing why such information would be evident, yet.

"I don't know, I was out about two hours ago. Why do you – Oh no, something happened, didn't it?" she asked turning to John. The blank stare she got in return told her everything.

"Oh Sherlock, what ha –"

"Mrs Hudson, could you please leave? I need to think," he said, fingers restlessly going up and down his thigh in agitation.

"But –"

"Out!"

After Sherlock's shout she quickly left the flat and John sighed, knowing he would definitely not get a good night's sleep.

**Please tell me if you enjoyed it! Reviews keep me going!**

**Yesterday I went shopping and you know what I saw? A shirt that said 'I'm in love with a blogger'. ...I didn't buy it, but a smirk was plastered on my face for whole five minutes.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 "Nothing"  
**

After they had gone through theories what the letter could possibly mean, John found himself in his bed. He restlessly turned, unable to find a comfortable position and sleep just wouldn't come.

God, why couldn't they just be left alone? For the past few months everything had been going smoothly, cases turned up, Sherlock solved them quickly and sometimes he even had time to go on dates (which quickly became an issue). Overall, they were happy, but of course Moriarty had to bugger them. Bloody consulting criminal.

John rubbed his eyes, knowing that at this rate he would never find sleep. He looked at the ceiling, wondering when his life had become this complicated. Well, it really was his own fault. Who had told him to befriend the mad detective?

But the danger had sent an excited shiver down his spine and he just hadn't been able to resist. Mycroft had been right, he missed the war. It made him feel like he had a purpose, a role in this madness.

Now he had found his place alongside Sherlock, solving crimes and fighting the evil that lurked in the shadows of London.

No, he didn't regret his decision to join the consulting detective one bit.

The blonde perked up when he heard music coming from downstairs. He cringed as sharp, angry sounds filled the flat, but they were quickly replaced by soothing ones, like an apology.

John raised an eyebrow at that thought, wondering since when Sherlock took him into consideration while playing. Their relationship had changed over time, now they were somewhat like equals.

He left his room and went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. His flatmate stood by the window playing his violin, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

The doctor smiled vaguely as he put the kettle on. He was glad to know some things could take Sherlock's mind off of things, if only for a little while.

The letter still lay on the table, a constant reminder of their current situation. They didn't know what Moriarty planned, didn't know where he was and when he would start the game. John sneered, _'game'_.

"John?" Startled he turned around, seeing Sherlock putting his violin down and staring at him.

"What are you doing up?"

"I - I couldn't sleep," he answered truthfully, expecting his flatmate to give a snarky response. But he didn't.

Sherlock opened his mouth a few times, but no words came out. An uncomfortable silence surrounded the two of them and John didn't know what to say either.

"John, I -," the kettle interrupted the detective and John poured the hot water into his favourite cup. After preparing his tea he took a sip, looking up to hear what Sherlock had to say, but said person had moved to the sofa.

The blogger took a seat on the armchair. Sherlock stared at the wall, lost in thought once again. John drank his tea in silence, trying to understand the need of the universe to torture them. Everything else was simple, homicide, a serial killer, secret organisations, but Moriarty...

"Isn't it exciting?" Sherlock asked all of a sudden.

"Exciting?" the blonde repeated with raised eyebrows.

"Moriarty. Finally something interesting."

John stared at him in disbelief. Interesting?

"How - how can this madness be something to enjoy? He's playing a game with you, again. People will die and you think it's exciting?"

Sherlock looked at him, somewhat shocked.

"Not good?"

"No, not good," the doctor sighed. _Only he could find it enjoyable to be challenged by a consulting criminal._

"You have to be careful, John."

"What?"

The genius stared at him with determination and John gulped.

"I don't want anything happening to you, like the last time when Moriarty kidnapped you. Do you understand?"

His friend grew irritated, why would Sherlock tell him this?

"Of course I'll be careful. What do you think I am, an idiot?"

Sherlock smirked at his response and seemed to accept it. The tense undertone of their conversation disappeared and the two of them eased off. John drank the rest of his tea and leaned back in his armchair.

"You know, why aren't _you_ sleeping?" he asked his flatmate.

"Slows me down."

"From what? We have got nothing to work on. Just the letter and even that doesn't help us with anything. You should sleep," John replied.

"You aren't sleeping, so why should I?"

"The difference is I _tried _to sleep, you didn't."

The brunette sighed in defeat.

"I hate it when you win an argument."

"Because it doesn't happen often. Now go."

Sherlock stood up, a pout forming.

_God, he really is like a child._

"You have to go too, John. You need more sleep than I do."

Knowing he wouldn't go otherwise, John complied. He watched as Sherlock went to his room and waited until he got into his bed. Yawning he went to sleep himself, hoping to get some hours of rest.

* * *

"We should tell Lestrade," John said as he ate breakfast. Sherlock looked at him with confusion from the other side of the room.

"Why, care tell me, should we do that?" he asked with disinterest.

"Uhm, because we received a letter from a _consulting criminal_ who threatens to play one of his _beloved_ games with us?"

"Since when are you so sarcastic?" Sherlock pointed out.

"Since I'm living with you, you're rubbing off on me."

He finished his meal and took the dirty plates to the kitchen. The table was once again full of experiments. John didn't dare to ask what was in the jar at the end, it certainly looked like an alien. Sherlock followed him and sat down to take a few notes.

"If we tell the Detective Inspector, then how should this help us? Scotland Yard are a bunch of idiots and he's the only one with a _hint _of intelligence. They won't be able to help us at all."

John stared at him with a mocking look of disbelief.

"Did you just compliment Lestrade?!"

"Shut up."

"You _did_! I can't believe it!"

Sherlock sighed and put his head in his hands.

"If we tell him, will you stop annoying me?"

"Maybe."

The consulting detective groaned and stood up. He put on his coat and scarf and took the letter. John quickly followed him with a grin.

The silent cab ride which was only interrupted with Sherlock muttering he was an idiot, had been totally worth it.

* * *

"What do you want?" Sally Donovan asked Sherlock with distaste as they entered Scotland Yard.

"We need to talk to Lestrade," John answered for him as his friend made no move to respond.

Donovan eyed them for a second but complied and brought them to the DI's office. He was sitting in front of his computer writing reports.

"Freak's here with the doctor," she told him and left. Lestrade looked up at them with raised eyebrows.

"What are you doing here?" he asked and pointed to the chairs in front of him. The two of them sat down and told the Detective Inspector about the events from the day before. After John finished talking, he had been often interrupted by Sherlock ("You forgot something!"), Lestrade sighed.

"Why can't you two stay out of trouble?"

"He's the world's only consulting detective and I'm his partner and blogger, I don't think that's possible," John remarked and enjoyed the sight of the smile on Sherlock's face.

"I'll check if someone in your neighbourhood saw someone suspicious enter the building, but I don't think there's more I can do. I'm afraid Moriarty will have to do the first move, we've got nothing on him," the DI told them.

"Well, if that is so, then this was a waste of our time. Exactly like I told you, John. Come on," Sherlock stood up and left the office. John followed him and they stopped in front of the building.

"What do we do now?" the blonde asked his friend.

"I'm afraid Lestrade has a point, there isn't much we can do. No one will have seen someone deliver the letter, Moriarty is far too clever. We do not even know if it was himself who did it," Sherlock sighed and stopped a cab, "we have got nothing."

They drove back to their flat and were greeted by the sight of Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock, you've got a visitor!" she told him, clearly excited.

"Who?" John asked and she looked at Sherlock.

"Your brother."

The tall man groaned and made his way up the stairs. Mycroft sat on the sofa with his umbrella by his side. He looked up with a thin smile.

"So you have finally arrived," he said and got up. He shook hands with John and Sherlock appeared to try to ignore him.

"I have received the news that you got a letter yesterday. Moriarty, I suppose."

He stared at his younger brother, "Where is it?"

"We gave it Lestrade," Sherlock replied and removed his scarf and coat.

"Oh? That is not what you would normally do, is it?" Mycroft asked and the consulting detective glared at him. John felt like he was missing something.

"I made him do it," the doctor said and looked at the two brothers.

"I am quite sure you did, Mr Watson. We can only be grateful that Sherlock has one person he listens to," he sighed and twiddled with his umbrella.

"Should I make tea?" John uncertainly asked, he felt out of his element.

"No, thank you."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with disinterest.

"You are always so bold, Sherlock. And why can't I just visit because I want to see my brother?"

"Oh, please," the detective remarked, "since when."

Mycroft made a displeased face at that and John wondered if they had ever gotten along.

"I came here to tell you that a source of mine informed me, that someone has been recently searching for information about you, Sherlock, and -"

"Mycroft, just because of this you -"

"Also about John."

Silence fell and Sherlock stared at his brother. The tension was thick in the room and John gulped. _Someone researched me?_

"Who?" his flatmate asked.

His brother smiled somewhat amused.

"I don't know, but I guess from yesterday's events, Moriarty."

"But why would he search for information about the both of us? I'm quite sure he already knows everything about us. So why? This doesn't make sense!" Sherlock rambled and glanced at John.

"Maybe he thinks there may have happened something recently, or will?" Mycroft remarked, moving towards the door.

"I will keep an eye on things and please, do not do something you will regret, Sherlock," and he left.

"What did he mean by that?" John asked, but Sherlock ignored him and paced around the flat. He sighed and made a cup of tea to calm himself. The Holmes brothers were maybe very different, but maybe also very well the same.

**Did you all see the teaser trailer? I think the best thing was the moustache ;) Please review!**


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